


Scarred

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Travels [58]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 18:19:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5794921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately post-Blight, Theron struggles to come to terms with his newfound insecurities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarred

Theron sank down into the freshly drawn bath as carefully as he could, but the second the hot water touched the still-raw pink scars on his side he flinched away with a hiss of pain.

“Everything alright, _mi amor_?” Zevran spoke up from where he lay stretched out on the bed, engrossed in _The Rose of Orlais_ he must have snuck out from Wynne’s room. His shirt was a crumpled pile of fabric up near the pillows, but he still had his trousers on.

“Fine.” Theron lied through gritted teeth as he sat down in the bath and ignored the dull pain the water caused on his scars. Aggravated, he glared down at the three raised claw marks that curved around his side, listing endless mumbled curses in relation to the finally-dead Archdemon that had put the scars there.

They started far around on his right side, three flat rounded ends that he knew more from touch than by sight. The highest was settled over his last rib, the lowest on the small of his back. That had been where the Archdemon’s swipe had connected, talons piercing his armour and skin. He’d been too slow to dodge in time and had been batted away like a cat toy. The hard stone roof of Fort Drakon hadn’t been the most yielding material to land and roll on; he’d gained two cracked ribs from that.

The three lines were parallel to each other, and tapered out as they curved towards his navel. The claws had torn free of his flesh as he’d rolled away. It had been a good thing he was wearing thick dragonskin armour and had good reflexes, or those claws would have disembowelled him rather than nicked. That was the word Eamon’s healer had used. _Nicked_. Like the wounds were scratches from a briar thorn that would fade away to nothing in a week.

Theron scowled down at the bathwater as he grabbed the bar of herbal soap on the side and began to clean himself roughly, unable to vent his anger anywhere else. The damned Archdemon hadn’t killed him but it had left him with three _more_ unsightly scars, pink and raised from his skin with their freshness. They _itched_ , still healing, and that was the most irritating part.

He swiped the soap over his front, and then reluctantly rubbed the flat of his palm over them to work up a lather. The bubbles hid them somewhat, but as his hand ran over smooth unmarred skin interrupted by much tougher raised lines three times in a row it made him feel faintly sick at the memory.

Theron set the soap back down, dully washing the lather away. The wet scar tissue gleamed up at him, tauntingly pink and real and _there_. He tipped his head back against the rim of the bath and squeezed his eyes shut, sorely tempted to slip under the water for a few… Minutes. Hours. But Zevran would notice after a few seconds if he didn’t resurface.

He reopened his eyes and reached for the soap again instead to start on his arms. Drowning himself in a few inches of bathwater was _not_ the way he wanted to die. Not after he’d survived the Archdemon.

The next set of scars he could see were the ones on his chest; a crude mockery of his _vallaslin_ that branched across his pectorals and down his sternum. Those were from Fort Drakon. He could remember when he’d gotten them, too.

Theron shook his head as if he could physically dislodge the memories of the torturer’s knife and the stretch of the rack from his brain, gripping tightly at the bar of soap. These scars were older now, barely raised from his skin and with a very faint pink tinge to some of the thicker lines, but they were paler than the surrounding skin. Neater than the Archdemon scars, too.

The room was quiet as he bathed and Zevran read, but finally Theron only had one last area to clean.

“Hey, Zevran?” He asked.

“Hm?” The blond turned a page.

“Can you wash my back?”

Zevran tore his gaze from the book, blinked at Theron and then nodded.

“Of course.” He added with a sly grin as he left the bed and accepted the offered bar of soap. He knelt down on the floor next to the bath, and when the ranger leaned forward with his braids draped over one shoulder, obligingly began to lather up his back and shoulders.

Theron's shoulders bore the worst of his scars, which he could feel either by limited touch or in the pull of the scar tissue whenever he moved his arms in certain directions. The magefire burn scars, not just one set but overlapping layers built on top of each other thanks to cruelly sparse healing magic between torture sessions. Also courtesy of Fort Drakon. They still hurt from time to time if he pushed at the limits they now imposed by stretching his arms too far or doing too much archery practice.

The Dalish elf sighed to himself as he felt the soap and Zevran’s warm hands run over his shoulder blades - or, rather, _barely_ felt.  He could feel the pressure of contact or the shock of cold water, certainly, but he no longer felt lighter pressures like gentle touches even if he knew they were there. Wynne had reassured him that if he was lucky it wouldn’t be permanent. The contrast between the scar tissue and the uninjured skin of his neck and back was alarming. He could feel by _not_ feeling. Creators only knew what they _looked_ like; he could only see one or two feathered edges where they reached the top of his shoulders. They were pale as well, stiff and faintly silvered.

Theron bowed his head, rubbing at the sweat gathering on the back of his exposed neck as he stared down blankly at the bathwater. Zevran’s hands on his back paused, his wet fingertips lingering on the edges of the burn scars, brushing the hypersensitive new skin.

“Theron, are you alright?” Zevran spoke up. “You are rather quiet, even for you.”

Theron merely shrugged, and he grimaced at the strange pull of resistance in his shoulders. He still wasn’t used to it, to any of it. A few moons ago, he’d only had minor scars, ones that didn’t stand out as much. The three sets he bore now had happened in such a short space of time they didn’t feel real. The fact half of his nightmares were now about Fort Drakon or the Archdemon didn’t help to dispel the dreamlike quality to the scars. But they _were_ there. They weren’t part of a bad dream. He could feel them, even if he couldn’t see them. Observers were luckier. As soon as he put a shirt or his armour on, the scars were hidden away from view of the rest of the world that knew him as the Hero of Ferelden. They didn’t know or care about the injuries he’d suffered, only what he’d done for them, which was reasonable enough.

Only a handful of people knew how extensive the scars were - in fact, Wynne, Zevran and perhaps Alistair were the only ones to have seen all of them at one point or another over the past few weeks. He knew the scars’ extent, could feel them constantly against the surrounding skin. He had to live with them now until the end of his days, the vicious and permanent marring to his body. They turned his stomach to look at for too long; how did Zevran manage to look at them day after day? Didn’t he find them disgusting? He _had_ to.

“How can you stand it?” Theron asked bitterly.

“What?” Zevran replied, before he edged round the side of the bath so he could see the other elf’s face. “Are you talking about the scars?” He added, and Theron peered up through his eyelashes to see his frown of worried confusion.

The ranger nodded, looking down at the scars he could see before he stood up and got out of the bath, throat tight. As he dried himself off, it was too easy to pretend however briefly that the scars weren’t there when they were hidden under the towel. That he wasn’t so visibly injured.

As he bent to dry off his legs, his shoulders pulled again as if they were actively restraining him, and that was the final straw. Swearing explosively in frustration, he threw the towel down to the floor and began to pace the room like a caged animal, even as part of him was alarmed at the sudden upwelling of directionless rage. He noticed how Zevran watched him silently where he now stood next to the bath, subtly out of the way of attention, a crease of worry between his brows the only deviation from his carefully neutral expression. Zevran had known and seen every part of him before the Archdemon, before Fort Drakon and the visible reminders of those experiences.

Theron _hated_ the damn scars with every fibre of his being. It was an abrupt, constant burn in his stomach. He _loathed_ what they were a constant reminder of. Tied to a rack as his skin and the muscles beneath _burned_ again and again, watching as the knife cut into his skin and threatened to go either higher or much lower. Looking up at a giant corrupted dragon that inspired horrified awe, and then just horror. The times when he was helpless and unable to truly fight back. When he’d… He’d failed.

The tears that blurred his vision made him halt mid-stride to hide his face in his hands and swallow a pathetic little noise of misery, even as the hatred and rage simmered low in his gut.

“ _Amor_?” He heard Zevran say tentatively, and then listened to the gentle pad of bare feet approaching. “Come and sit down, hm?” The blond offered, and Theron let himself be steered to the bed by a gentle hand on his back.

He sat down heavily, hands falling into his bare lap as he stared blankly across the room. The bed creaked beside him as Zevran sat down to his left, reaching over to take one hand in both of his.

“I can’t forget about what happened.” Theron began slowly, hating how his voice wavered. “Not with _these_ to remind me.” He glanced down at the scars on his front, and grimaced in disgust as he looked away quickly. Zevran remained silent, letting him continue speaking if he needed.

“They’re never going to go away. Every day I’ll look down and see them again, and remember when and how they got there.” Theron continued miserably, gaze finding Zevran’s hands enclosing his, rather than his face. It was easier for the words to come out that way. “They’ll stop hurting, but that won’t make them look nicer.”

“You are ashamed of them.” Zevran spoke up, and Theron wasn’t sure if it was a question or an assumption. He sighed, and leaned his head against the other elf’s shoulder.

“I think so. I don’t know how you can act like nothing’s changed when everything has.” Theron answered. He felt one of Zevran’s hands leave his to curl around his waist, just below the curve of the scars that had torn ribbons into his side.

“Not everything.” The Antivan disagreed, reaching up so his fingers brushed lightly against the bottom of the lowest scar. “You still live, which is more than enough for me. You have gained a few more scars, as everyone has. Such is life on the road, yes?”

Theron smirked bitterly.

“But these aren’t the usual scars from a life on the road.” He pointed out as he lifted his head up, looking over Zevran and noting the scars that cut across his bare torso and arms as frequently as his tattoos. Some were ones gained during the Blight, but others had been there for far longer than Theron had known him, from his time under the Crows. “The stories behind them aren’t ones I could brag about, really.”

Zevran laughed softly at that. “You are too humble, Theron,” He teased. “I cannot think of many men who would survive fighting a corrupted dragon and _not_ brag about the scars from that encounter.” When he caught Theron’s pained look, he cleared his throat. “However, I do understand why you would not wish to discuss Fort Drakon in great detail.” Zevran reassured him.

“I hate them.” Theron muttered, flopping back onto the bed. Unsurprisingly, Zevran moved swiftly to kneel over him so their heads were level. His golden eyes glinted with faint mischief, but his hands remained innocently still on the bed sheets just above Theron’s shoulders.

“Those scars are reminders you should be proud of, _mi amor_.” The blond disagreed gently, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the centre of Theron’s forehead. “They show me and anyone else that sees them that you survived everything you faced and are alive today to complain about them. Perhaps through blind luck or fate or divine intervention, what have you,” Zevran waved a hand dismissively. “but mostly due to your sheer stubbornness in the face of death. Unfortunate for an assassin trying to earn his keep, no?”

Theron smiled weakly up at the blond, and the miserable bitterness in his chest started to ease like a knot being pulled loose.

“And if you think my attraction to you has waned due to the scars, well…” Zevran shrugged, his gaze soft. “I may be vain about my _own_ appearance, but I am not a shallow man. Certainly not shallow enough to find you ugly because of a fresh collection of scars, _mi amor_.” His gaze darted up and down Theron’s bare front suggestively, the mischief in his eyes growing. “You are still handsome. I might even be _jealous_ of those scars.” He admitted slyly.

“I doubt you would be jealous if you got them instead of me.” Theron pointed out.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about some of them. After all, there’s nothing quite like a good racking.” Zevran teased. Theron smiled again as he reached up to run a hand through Zevran’s hair and cup his cheek, until a low curl of guilt coiled low in his stomach. Zevran had suffered through worse.

“I’m sorry.” The Dalish elf muttered, and Zevran frowned down at him again.

“What for?”

“I have no right to complain when you’ve…” Theron trailed off and nodded to Zevran’s body. The blond snorted disdainfully at him.

“Yes, you do. I have suffered, true, but those days of submitting to whims of the Crows are behind me now.” Zevran answered dryly. “They are not quite over for you, it seems. And your pain is not worth less than mine simply because mine came first or lasted for longer.”

Theron could only hope that it wasn’t too presumptuous at this point to assume Zevran loved him by now, even if he had yet to say it in those words. Zevran loved him, despite the scars - no, scars and all. Even if he found his scars hindering at best and ugly at worst, Zevran didn’t. He saw them as something to be _proud_ of.

Theron looked down when he felt one warm hand on his chest, paying the briefest of attention to sensitive and unmarred skin before it was tracing every curve of the knife scars that mocked his _vallaslin_. He remained still, hand resting on the blond’s cheek, waiting to see what he would do, if he would speak again.

“You worry too much, perhaps.” Zevran eventually suggested, and Theron let his next breath leave him in a weary sigh.

“I know.” He answered, gaze fixed on the blond’s thumb as it brushed softly, reverently, over the line on his sternum. Zevran meant what he said, it seemed. He wasn’t saying it to make him feel better. “Life would be boring otherwise.”

Zevran laughed again, a quiet sound for the intimacy of the moment rather than his usual attention-grabbing crowing.

“I am certain that while bemoaning one’s misfortunes is all well and good, there are infinitely more things to enjoy in life, no?” He asked.

His hand drifted lower and to the left, following each tapering clawmark so slowly, it was as if he wanted to wipe away the memories of a hot flash of violence and blood and agony to replace it with this. This gentle intimacy, the love that urged it into being.

“Probably.” Theron shrugged airily, and now that Zevran’s hand was out of the way he was able to lean up and press a kiss to the blond’s lips.

“You do not belong to the scars, _mi amor_ ,” Zevran murmured when they parted, his gold eyes earnest despite his casual smile. “They are a part of you, and belong to you,” He insisted. “They are just as beautiful as you are.”

Theron felt the knot in his chest fade into nothingness, and he reached for Zevran’s lips again.

“ _Ar lath ma_.” He answered.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations  
> Mi amor - My love  
> Ar lath ma - I love you
> 
> Feedback on this piece or any others I've posted here would be much appreciated!


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